


Guard the Foundation

by prufrocknonsense



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blind Character, Blind Sam Winchester, Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Original Character(s), Physical Disability, Sam Has Powers, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrocknonsense/pseuds/prufrocknonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, born blind but with the unique ability to sense the supernatural, has left behind his foray into civilian life at Stanford to rejoin his brother on the road. Dean is happy to have him back, but worries about Sam’s ability to readjust to the hunter lifestyle. When a mistake during what should have been a simple case has near fatal consequences, Sam realizes that it’s going to take some convincing for Dean to trust in him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guard the Foundation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the [2015 Wincest Big Bang](http://wincestbigbang.tumblr.com/).  
> I'd like to thank the Mods for putting this together, my wonderful artist [burningwicker](http://burningwicker.livejournal.com/), and my fabulous beta [Robin](http://moresam.tumblr.com/) :)  
> The art post can be found [here](http://burningwicker.livejournal.com/1163.html). Please check it out and tell her how much you love it because it is AMAZING.  
> Feedback is extremely welcome as this is my first long fic with a legit plot and stuff so I would really love to hear what y'all think about it.  
> PS: I had to mess around with the html in this for an incredibly long time so if you find any errors, please let me know!

It’s been a month since Sam left his life at Stanford to join his brother on the road and he’s finally getting used to waking up in motel beds again. The hunter’s life isn’t glamorous, and after living it his whole life, a few years of relative normalcy can’t completely erase the routine of strange beds with starchy sheets and lumpy pillows.  


He rubs his eyes and yawns, at once thankful for and annoyed by his perfect internal clock that wakes him up every day promptly at six. There are probably plenty of people out there who would be glad to never have to hear the annoying ring of an alarm clock in the morning, but it especially comes in handy for someone who was born without the ability to ever see a sunrise.  


Sam rolls his neck as he raises himself out of bed. He listens to the deep, even breathing of his brother in the next bed over. He doesn’t need to see him to know that Dean is lying on his stomach, one hand touching the knife he keeps under his pillow, unable to let his guard down even in sleep.  


It makes him wish he could crawl into bed beside him. Dean has never been a heavy sleeper, and even without the risk of waking him up, Sam finds himself tiptoeing around the subject of intimacy between them. They haven’t shared a bed since before he left for college, and even then it was out of necessity because hunting with their father meant sharing motel rooms, and motels don’t typically offer rooms with three beds.  


Despite the time apart, it took only days for him and Dean to fall back into that aspect of their relationship. Sam’s girlfriend was dead, burnt on the ceiling in the same manner as their mother so many years ago. Sam had cried after, told Dean he loved Jess and he missed her. Dean had held him and kissed Sam’s sweaty forehead, showing with his touch what he was unable to convey in words.  


They don’t talk about that part. The problem is that sex is easy; intimacy is hard.  


Sam sighs and makes his way to the bathroom. He always takes the time to feel out a new room when they arrive, but he had been so tired from driving the night before that the routine had taken a backseat to simply crashing in the nearest bed and becoming dead to the world for the next four hours. They’d gotten wind of a suspected restless spirit that had already caused two deaths, and being only two states away at the time, had driven through the night to get there as fast as possible.  


Luckily, the motel room is sparsely furnished and laid out as simply and predictably as can be. He locates his duffle on the floor by the foot of his bed and rummages through it, finding a towel and a bottle of the practical, all-in-one shampoo plus body wash Dean insists on buying. The small bathroom is only a couple steps from his bed, door left open. Sam doesn’t turn on the light – no need – or bother to close the door behind him. He strips, carefully folding his clothes, and feels out a small empty space on the counter to place them.  


The shower has a single dial and surprisingly decent water pressure. Sam hisses and springs back as the first blast comes out freezing cold, but relaxes under the spray as it gradually warms.  


Sam showers efficiently; the water pressure isn’t good enough to waste valuable time underneath its spray. After rinsing and wringing out his hair, he leaves the shampoo bottle in the corner of the stall where Dean can find it later. Turning off the water, he steps out onto the cold tile, feeling only momentarily dismayed at the small puddles forming there as water drips from his body.  


He dries off and collects his sleep clothes, not bothering with useless modesty as he walks out nude to search his bag for a clean shirt.  


He hears Dean groan and stretch while he’s pulling on yesterday’s jeans.  


“Time is it?”  


“About six fifteen.”  


There’s some shuffling on the bed and the soft _clack_ of Dean flipping his cell phone open.  


“Ha! Six seventeen,” he says triumphantly. “You’re losing your edge, wonderboy.”  


Sam pulls his shirt over his head and grunts. “Shut up.”  


Sam gets to setting up his laptop on the small table near the window while Dean takes his turn in the shower, grumbling about how Sam could have waited for him.  


“You know it would have taken twice as long if I had,” Sam says to the closed bathroom door.  


“Freaking bat,” Dean responds in a mumble far too quiet for the average person to hear. Sam smiles because Dean knows he can hear him anyway.  


In the absence of his sight, Sam’s other senses excel. His hearing is impeccable, something that can come in handy when undercover, and even his sense of smell is unusually sensitive, something Dean used to his advantage very often when they were kids engaging in prank wars.  


However, Sam’s unique abilities extend beyond the ability to eavesdrop and pick up scents like a bloodhound. His success as a hunter can be attributed to something else entirely, something that no one has ever been able to explain to him.  


As far as he understands it, even as young as six months old, Sam has had a sixth sense. He is able to sense and pinpoint the supernatural like a beacon. He can feel the presence of ghosts, creatures, cursed objects, and even the remains of people who have become restless spirits. During encounters with otherworldly entities, his inability to see becomes negligible. He’s done things no blind person should ever be able to do – fought off werewolves, shot ghosts full of rock salt with perfect aim, and pinpointed graves of restless spirits, among other things.  


As a child, his father met with a psychic who opened his eyes to the world of the supernatural. Missouri Moseley also revealed the presence of the supernatural power lurking within his infant son. Unable to pinpoint it as anything particular, even unable to discern any inherent good or evil in its origins, she had insisted John let her keep a close watch on Sam’s development. Under his father’s watchful eye and the regular meetings with Missouri, Sam had grown up knowing there was something different about him. His father tried to hide it, but Sam was also aware of the fear it struck in John.  


When they were kids, Dean called Sam a superhero. Sam called himself a freak.  


The laptop whirs softly as it boots up. It’s getting time for a new one, but Sam has developed such a special affinity for his trusty computer that he’s been putting it off for some time. The thing is perfectly suited to him, though, from the carefully placed Braille stickers on the keys to the highest quality text-to-talk software there is.  


“You hungry?” Dean calls to him from the bathroom. Sam listens to the familiar sounds of his brother toweling off and the soft padded footsteps across the carpet, the rustle of Dean’s clothes in his bag as he gets dressed.  


“Mm,” Sam hums noncommittally.  


“I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll be back in fifteen. Or however long it takes me to find a decent breakfast place. Wonder if they even have a Starbucks in this town. Might have to go without your frappuccino today, princess.”  


“I’ll live.”

~

When Dean arrives back at the hotel, bags of carry-out boxes rustling and the smell of fresh coffee following him, Sam is already typing away at the laptop, headphones over his ears. The text-to-talk software they have set up on the laptop is a lifesaver. Sam became proficient in Braille early on with the help of special programs in the many schools he was enrolled in as well as the expert instruction of one of John’s old hunting buddies, a guy named Bobby who knew more languages than most people even knew existed. Apparently he had learned Braille out of boredom and the off chance he ever lost his sight later in life. There isn’t much use for that when researching monsters; it’s not like anyone bothers to convert creepy ancient texts into Braille. Despite this, it’s a useful skill outside of hunting.  


“How’s it looking, Sammy?”  


Sam pulls off the headphones. “Two dead after inquiring at the estate sale of Gerald Morgan, who died last month. The victims dropped dead almost simultaneously of heart attacks. They were both in their early forties with no previous history of heart problems.”  


“Could be a coincidence.”  


“Not a likely one. It’s got all the makings of a standard restless spirit. Old man dies, family sells off his stuff, buyers end up dead. His death wasn’t particularly violent, as is usual for a restless spirit, but it’s not unheard of. The granddaughter is the one in charge of the estate sale. Aliyah Morgan, lives in a suburb just outside the city. Oh, and Gerald was cremated, so we can rule that question out.”  


Dean sighs. He hates when they’re cremated. It makes things so much more difficult. “So we’re gonna be paying her a visit.”  


“Yep.”  


“Well, just leave the charming to me.”  


Sam snorts. “Sure. Now give me my coffee.”  


“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dean mutters as he sets the cup in front of Sam. He deposits the boxes of food on the table, moving Sam’s laptop aside to make room for it all.  


“All right, we got pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and mixed fruit for the lady,” he says as he lays it all out. Sam reaches for the fruit despite the scowl on his face.  


“Just don’t eat all the pancakes.”  


“I’m a growing boy, Sammy.”  


“Yeah, you wish.”  


“All right, take your shots. Just hurry up and eat so we can get this show on the road.”

~

When they go to meet the granddaughter, Sam takes his cane. He may have a freaky sixth sense that enables him to sense and pinpoint supernatural creatures, but the man’s not a superhero and he has good enough sense not to try to be. He wears his glasses too, and the whole ensemble manages to make him look far less capable than he is. Sam never liked standing out any more than necessary.  


“Here we are,” Dean says as he pulls up into the drive of a large, suburban home. It’s not exactly the manor Dean was expecting, after seeing how much the Morgan family was worth, but it’s nice enough and clear that this woman is doing quite well even without the money she’ll be getting from her grandfather’s estate.  


Little purple flowers line the walkway up to the front door. The doorbell is encircled by an elegant frame and it rings cheerfully through the house when Dean presses it.  


The woman who comes to the door is short and dark skinned, in her early thirties according to their investigation but looking much younger with her round face and bright eyes. She raises an eyebrow at them.  


“Can I help you?”  


“Yes, ma’am,” Dean answers. He and Sam take out their impeccable fake badges in sync. “Agents Fogerty and Cook. We’re here investigating the deaths of the prospective buyers at your grandfather’s estate sale.”  


She raises her eyebrows at them. “I already told the police I didn’t know anything about it.”  


“Of course,” Sam interjects. “The police handled the preliminary investigation. We’re just covering all our bases.”  


The woman pauses, looking up at Sam. She takes him in and Dean can see the moment she notices the cane clutched in his right hand and realizes his glasses aren’t just for keeping the sun out of his eyes.  


“Uh, sure.” Clearly caught off guard, she steps back and opens the door wider, inviting them in.  


The house is well furnished, but open. The front door opens to a large sitting room with leather couches that look nice but well used, like a good pair of boots that have been broken in. A medium sized flat screen television occupies the middle of the wall, and a low coffee table fills the floor space in between. Dean can see the kitchen through an open entrance way to the right.  


Sam walks close to him, like he does in new spaces. He doesn’t need the cane much when he does that, his heightened senses allowing him to follow Dean’s steps and anticipate obstacles by proximity, but he tends to use the cane in front of people anyway. People expect it, and Sam has always preferred to lay low with his abilities rather than show them off.  


They take a seat beside each other on one of the couches. It’s comfortable, and Dean can imagine kicking back after a long day with a beer in hand and the remote in the other, flipping through channels as he sinks into the plush leather cushions.  


Motel room couches just can not compare.  


“So, agents,” Aliyah starts. “I assume I don’t have to introduce myself.”  


Sam smiles, warm and designed to set people at ease. “No, that won’t be necessary, Ms. Morgan.”  


“You can just call me Aliyah.”  


“Okay. Aliyah it is.”  


“Aliyah,” Dean cuts in. “We’ve been briefed on the details of the case, but we’d like to hear it from your perspective.”  


“Okay,” she says, drawn out, like she’s annoyed at having to go through the spiel again. “Well, I barely knew those guys who died. They were prospective buyers for some items at my grandfather’s estate sale. I only spoke to them a few times, just about prices. They wanted to buy outright, but I told them they would have to wait for the auction. They weren’t happy about it, but they didn’t get crazy over it or anything.”  


“And that was the last time you saw them, the day you spoke to them?”  


“Yeah.”  


“Was there a specific thing they were interested in?”  


“Actually, yeah. They both wanted my grandfather’s armoire. It’s an heirloom, really old but in great condition. It’s been passed down for generations in this family.” Her lips quirk ruefully. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy about me selling it, but I just don’t have the room for it.”  


Dean glances over at Sam, who turns instinctively towards him in acknowledgement. Knowing Gerald wouldn’t want the item to be sold adds credence to the assumption of a restless spirit. They tend not to want the item to which they’re tied changing hands against their will.  


“Tell us about your grandfather,” Sam says.  


Aliyah’s forehead wrinkles. “Is that really necessary for the investigation?”  


“Humor me.”  


“Okay, well, he was more like a father to me, really. My mom had me when she was young. She wasn’t ready to be a mom. My grandparents were the ones who raised me.”  


“So, you were close?”  


“Yeah. He was really protective of me, always trying to keep me away from trouble. We never fought, though. I always knew he was just looking out for me.” She sighs. “It’s been a month since he passed away, and I feel like I haven’t even gotten a chance to really mourn him. Arranging everything with this sale has taken up so much time. And then this happens…. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”  


Sam’s forehead creases in concern. “We’re very sorry for your loss. When is the auction?”  


“This Friday.”  


“All right,” Dean says. “Would you mind showing us the items for sale?”  


“It’s all in a storage locker downtown. I can show you the inventory, but I don’t have time to get down there today.”  


“That won’t be necessary. If you have the address, we can check it out ourselves.”  


She hesitates, looking between them suspiciously.  


“You can trust us,” Sam tells her. “We’re professionals. We can show you the badges again, if you want.”  


Dean watches as the corners of Aliyah’s mouth turn down before her face smooths out into an easy smile in response to Sam’s light tone. “No need, Agent.”  


She gets up to grab a pen and pad of paper, and Dean takes the time to whisper to Sam, “I thought you said you’d leave the charming to me.”  


Sam smirks. “You could have jumped in at any time.”  


Dean shakes his head but is saved from having to respond by Aliyah returning. She hands him a sticky note with an address and phone number.  


“I think they’re open till eight. Now, if you guys have everything you need, I have to get ready to go to work.”  


“This will be just fine,” Dean says, holding up the note. “We’ll give you a call if we need anything else.”  


“And don’t hesitate to call us if anything else comes up,” Sam says, holding out one of their business cards for her to take.  


Dean can feel her eyes on them as they leave, and he knows he’s not the one she’s so fascinated with. Sam attracts a lot of attention, though at least this time she seems more interested than pitying.  


Dean ignores the tiny bit of jealousy that pops up when he realizes she’s checking Sam out.

~

They pick up a few burgers on the way back to the motel. Sam ribs him about being hungry after just eating, but Dean notices the way he involuntarily leans in to inhale the aroma from the carton of fries.  


It’s still early afternoon when they get back. Dean deposits the food on the table and begins unwrapping his burger right away. Sam unfolds his cane and places it on the nightstand between their beds.  


Sam rubs the bridge of his nose when he takes off his glasses. He doesn’t wear them when it’s just the two of them. Sam isn’t exactly self-conscious about his eyes, but he’s never liked the attention they tend to bring him in public.  


Lucky for Sam, they don’t have that milky whiteness a lot of blind people get that tends to freak people out. His eyes look totally normal, from a distance, but it’s the way they stay fixed almost permanently in an unfocused stare that makes most people uncomfortable. Dean’s been used to it since the day the kid was born, but a lot of people aren’t as prepared. At least most of them are subtle about it. Then there are the assholes who think it’s okay to stare just because Sam can’t see them doing it. Dean can, though, and he’s confronted that particular brand of asshole on more than one occasion.  


Sam can let a lot of things roll off his shoulders. Dean has never been as skilled at letting things go, especially when it comes to his brother.  


“So, this place closes at eight,” Dean says. “We can head over there after, find this armoire thing, burn it, and be done before the ten o’clock news.”  


Sam nods. “Sounds good.”  


Dean rustles the carry out bag. “Eat something. We’ve got a lot of time to waste.”  


Sam obeys, coming over to the table and reaching for the fries. Dean hands over a pack of ketchup and Sam proceeds to drown them in it. 

~

With nothing else to do until that evening, they waste most of the day lying around, Sam on his laptop and Dean flipping through channels on the ancient TV. Daytime television may have a reputation for sucking, but Dean has always had a secret weakness for Judge Judy.  


“What’s you verdict, Sam?”  


Sam looks up from his laptop. His headphones rest on his shoulders, probably too far from his ears for the average person to use adequately, but comfortable enough for him. “I haven’t been listening.”  


“Nah, I mean on the good Judge. Would you do her?”  


“You’re disgusting. Isn’t she like, seventy?”  


“Come on, she’s a total milf. Gilf?”  


“I can’t believe I’m sleeping with you.”  


“You love it.”  


Sam scoffs, but doesn’t say anything more. Dean watches him for a minute, appreciating the practiced movements of his long fingers over the keyboard and the concentrated set of his lips.  


“Still got a few hours before we need to go.”  


“Yeah, so?”  


Dean pats the bed and sprawls out. “Wanna?” He asks, knowing Sam knows what he means.  


“Dean. I’m kinda busy right now.”  


“What could you possibly be busy with? It’s a salt and burn. We could do this with our hands tied behind our backs.”  


“Then how would we start the lighter?”  


“Okay, blindfolded.”  


Sam faces him and frowns, one hand gesturing towards himself. “Really, Dean?”  


“All right, me blindfolded, you with earplugs and some kind of magic wonderboy senses blocker. Final offer.”  


Sam frowns, mocks thinking it over. “I’ll take it.”  


Dean sits back up, walks over to Sam and puts his hands on his knees. “Come on, I’ll blow you if you get off the laptop.”  


Sam reaches out to run a hand through Dean’s hair. “How are you such an attention whore?”  


Dean doesn’t answer, just leans in to kiss his brother softly. Sam’s lips are still a little bit salty from the fries and Dean knows his own mouth still tastes vaguely of ketchup, but Sam opens up into the kiss anyway.  
“Come on,” Dean whines. “It’ll take the edge off before we go in tonight.”  


It’s the same thing Dean had said nearly a month ago, only days after their first hunt back together.  


_“Yeah, come on Sammy,” Dean had muttered into Sam’s mouth after tumbling into their room, both high off the adrenaline still kicking their bodies into overdrive. “Let me take the edge off.” His fingers were pulling Sam’s jacket off his shoulders, lips traveling down his brother’s neck. Sam groaned and leant back against the wall, allowing Dean to strip them both.  
_

_Naked after what felt like an eternity, Dean dragged Sam over to the nearest bed – his, because he always took the one closest to the door. Sam fell back on it, laying there with his arms outstretched and legs spread, open like Dean hadn’t seen him in years.  
_

Years. _It had been years since they’d done this, since before Sam left. Before Sam went away and he dropped off the face of the earth. Before Dean left drunk voicemails on Sam’s phone pleading for him to come back. Before Dean stopped calling altogether.  
_

_“Dean,” Sam gasped as Dean crawled over him, let his hand travel down between their legs and take them both in hand.  
_

_“I got you, baby boy,” Dean whispered in his ear. “I’ll take care of you.”  
_

Dean is brought out of his reverie by Sam’s defeated sigh and the sound of the laptop clicking shut. Sam leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wide in invitation.  


Dean shakes off the memory and reaches for Sam’s zipper with a grin.

~

They stake out the storage facility before heading in, watching the employees leave until the last car in the lot is disappearing down the road.  


It’s larger than Dean was expecting. A main office sits at the front of a large lot, full of storage containers the size of boxcars. It takes them a minute to understand the numbering system, but once they get it they start filing down the third row, flashlights in hand.  


“309,” Dean mutters as he glances down at the note Aliyah gave them. “Here.”  


Sam stops in sync with him in front of one of the identical grey sheet-metal units. There’s a lock on the door, but it doesn’t take much to pick it.  


With a grunt, Dean slides the large door aside.  


“Shit.”  


“Hmm?”  


“That’s a lot of crap.”  


It is. The container is stuffed with furniture, all of it looking so old fashioned it may be more at home in a museum than anybody’s home. The front row is full of ornate cushioned chairs, followed by a couple tables, what looks to be a Victorian-style sofa, and gaudy marble statues. Dean strains his eyes looking for anything resembling an armoire.  


“I think it’s all the way in the back. Just our luck.”  


“We’ll have to move it all out to get to it.”  


“Can’t we just torch the whole thing?”  


“Dean. This stuff is probably worth a ridiculous amount of money, all of which is meant to go to Aliyah. We can’t just destroy it all.”  


Dean groans. “Fine. We’ll unload it.” He rubs his hands together, wishing he had workman’s gloves for this. “Anything to help out your little girlfriend.”  


“She’s not my girlfriend,” Sam protests in a distracted monotone. He’s frowning.  


“Dude, okay. No need to get pissy about it.”  


“It’s not that,” Sam says with a shake of his head. “I can’t feel it.”  


“Huh?”  


“I can’t feel it. You know, the ghost’s presence. I always feel it from the object they’re tied to.”  


Dean shrugs. “I dunno, maybe you lost satellite reception because of all the shit on top of it.”  


Sam doesn’t look satisfied with that explanation, but steps forward silently. They make quick work of the chairs, placing them in a row just outside the door. The tables follow. The sofa is light, and if it weren’t so long and unwieldy Dean could have picked it up himself. By the time the front half of the unit is clear, they slide the statues to the edges rather than bother with taking them out.  


“It’s there,” Dean says on a long exhale. Moving shit isn’t exactly as bad as digging up a grave, but it still takes a lot out of him.  


Sam steps forward with him and braces the sides of the armoire. Without a satisfactory grip, they slide it across the smooth floor of the unit until they reach the end.  


“What do you say, just tip it?”  


Sam shrugs. “It’s getting burned anyway.”  


In unison, they push it over the lip of the unit. It crashes to the ground noisily, and Dean is grateful they waited until they were sure everyone had left before breaking in.  


Dean is reaching into his pocket for the lighter fluid when Sam runs his hands through his hair, frustrated.  


“Dean, I still can’t feel it. I don’t think this is - .”  


Dean doesn’t have time to react before he’s being slammed against the hard metal wall of the unit by a silvery figure. The ghost growls in his face, its wrinkled jowls twisted in a furious sneer.  


“Dean!” Sam yells. Dean can hear the sound of his brother’s boots scuffing the ground and his own grunts as he tries to pry the ghost’s hands from his neck. It lifts him off the ground, and Dean starts to see spots in his vision as his airway is cut off.  


A loud bang on his right – the shot of Sam’s gun – sends the ghost away in swirling wisps. Dean falls to the ground, rubbing his neck and gasping.  


“Shit, Dean.” Sam falls to his knees at Dean’s side, running his hands over Dean’s face and body, searching for injuries. “You okay?”  


“Yeah,” Dean coughs. “He’ll be back. Gotta light it up.”  


He stands, only a little shaken, and quickly starts pouring the fluid over the armoire. “Keep watch for me, yeah, wonderboy?”  


Sam huffs, gripping his shotgun and standing perfectly still, his version of watching. As far as Dean knows, he doesn’t really see the things he senses, but Sam’s never been able to explain it. Explaining a sixth sense to someone with only five is just as hard as explaining sight to a guy who was born blind, it seems.  


Dean clicks the lighter open, and that’s when Gerald’s ghost decides to come back.  


Sam takes a shot before he reaches Dean, but the ghost seems to have picked up a bit more mojo – or just gotten more pissed off – and disappears for only a second, reappearing at Sam’s side. He jerks a hand out, grasping Sam’s chest.  


Sam gasps, curling in on himself. His body starts to shake and he lets out a pained scream.  


Dean flicks the lighter and finally, the armoire is ablaze. It rises in a great plume of fire, and Dean laughs triumphantly before his eyes adjust to the light and he realizes that Gerald is still there, still holding Sam, who is now writhing in pain.  


“Hey!” Dean yells. The ghost doesn’t turn to him, simply grips Sam tighter. Dean dives for his shotgun, discarded before they unloaded the unit, and blasts Gerald through the side, careful not to hit Sam.  


The ghost disappears once more, but Dean knows it will be back soon. He dashes to Sam’s side and grips his shoulders.  


“Hey, hey, hey,” he says as he cups Sam’s face in his hands. “Sammy? You okay?”  


Sam groans softly, but it’s good enough for now. The armoire is still burning behind him and the ghost clearly wasn’t affected by it, but they need to get out and regroup before anything more can be done.  


Dean pulls Sam up, leaning him against his shoulder. He gives Sam his gun and grips his own in his free hand. “Walk with me, Sammy,” he says softly into Sam’s ear. They make it only a few steps before Gerald reappears in front of them, but Dean one-handedly shoots him full of rock salt and they make it back to the Impala without any further interruptions.  


Sam falls into the passenger seat and Dean takes a moment to look him over before hitting the gas. His eyes are closed and his face scrunched up with pain.  


Dean regrets leaving behind such a mess around the unit, but he’s glad he got them out of there when he did. 

~

Dean spends the entire drive back to the motel with only half his attention on the road. His eyes keep flicking over to Sam, slumped in the passenger seat, occasionally groaning quietly in pain when they go over a bump in the road. Dean has never driven more carefully.  


When they arrive, Dean parks outside their room and shuffles Sam gently inside, grateful not to have a murderous ghost trailing them. He deposits Sam on his bed when they get back to the room and grabs a canister of salt from his bag to salt the door and windows. He returns to his brother’s side with an opened bottle of water from his duffle.  


“Drink,” he commands as he brings the bottle to Sam’s lips. Sam obeys, taking a few long pulls before leaning back again with a groan. Dean wrings his hands, at a loss for what to do. Wounds he can handle, but grabby ghosts don’t typically leave behind anything to patch up.  


Sam breathes heavily and reaches up one hand to press against his chest, right over his heart. He winces.  


“Shit, what was that?”  


“I don’t know, but he really did a number on you.”  


Sam rubs his chest where Gerald had grabbed him. “Hurts. Like he was reaching inside of me.” His brows furrow in thought. “Those two guys, they died of heart attacks, right?”  


“Fuck,” Dean exhales, suddenly feeling like his own chest is being constricted. “Yeah, they did.”  


“He was trying to kill me. Why strangle you, then try to kill me like the others? I mean, why not do the same to you?”  


Dean shrugs. “Dude, I don’t know. I’m just glad neither of us is dead.” He perches on the bed, leaning slightly against Sam’s outstretched legs. He watches the way Sam’s breathing starts to slow, returning to a normal rate.  


“What happened back there?” He asks. “You usually sense them before they get to us.”  


“I don’t know. It was weird. I couldn’t feel the presence in the armoire and I guess it threw me off.”  


“Well it makes sense now, because that clearly wasn’t the object he’s tied to. Still, a mix up like that’s never stopped you before.”  


“Dean, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”  


Dean bites his lip. He hesitates to ask his next question, anticipating a fight he really doesn’t want to have.  


“Do you think maybe you’re not ready for this yet?”  


There’s a long pause, Sam’s face scrunching up into a frown.  


“What’s that supposed to mean?”  


“You know, jumping right back into hunting. You were away for four years, living like a regular dude, probably never ran into a situation where you needed your wonderboy senses during that whole time.”  


“Are you saying I’m rusty?”  


“Do you think you’re rusty?”  


Sam sits up, shifting his legs away from Dean jerkily. “Dude, yeah, shit went wrong, but that doesn’t mean I’m incompetent. Things go wrong during hunts all the time.”  


“I didn’t say you were incompetent.”  


“No, just that you don’t think I’m ready for this. Dean, I can’t have you doubting me every time something goes wrong.”  


“That’s not –.” Dean cuts himself off. He can’t exactly deny that. “Look,” he begins again. “I just need to know that you’re ready for this.”  


“I am.” Sam leans in closer. “I’m okay.”  


“Yeah,” Dean relents. “You are. But shit, Sam. You could have died tonight.”  


“But I didn’t.”  


Sam reaches out a hand to rest on Dean’s cheek and pulls him into a kiss. It’s not urgent like most of them have been lately. Dean reaches up his hand to place over Sam’s chest. The feeling of Sam’s heartbeat calms him, somehow. Sometimes all he needs is to feel the proof that his brother is still here, because every time they’re apart it feels like Sam is slipping through his fingers again. Those years Sam was away at Stanford were ripe with anxiety, because as competent as Sam is, Dean is still his big brother and nothing will ever change the way he worries about Sam.  


Sam starts to pull him in, deepening the kiss into something more fervent. It’s true, they’ve made a habit of taking comfort in each other’s bodies after a hunt, but Dean gets the feeling Sam is in no shape for anything right now. He pulls away, hand dropping from Sam’s chest and shifting back further down the bed.  


“You should get some sleep, recover for tomorrow. The way we left things back there, we’re gonna be in deep shit. Might as well be rested.”  


Sam groans, only looking a little disappointed.

~

Dean sleeps in Sam’s bed that night. He rarely does, despite the nature of their relationship. Sam knows that part of it is Dean’s reluctance to announce anything by renting a room with one bed for two men, but Sam suspects a bigger part of it is the same part that tells him “no chick flick moments” when anything about their relationship comes up. Sam doesn’t dare ask the question, unexcited about another one of Dean’s brush offs.  


It’s nice, though. Dean is warm and solid against him, arm loosely thrown over Sam’s chest and legs pulled up tight behind Sam’s. His breath is steady at the back of Sam’s neck, and Sam can hear the even beat of his heart clearly in the quiet of the night.  


His eyes are closed, but sleep refuses to come. The weight of Dean’s doubt is like a solid pressure on his chest, even more tangible than the lingering pain from Gerald’s attempt to kill him. His own disappointment rings in his ears, the old insecurities that tend to bubble up when a hunt goes wrong.  


He’s not under any delusions; he knows the only useful thing he brings to the table as Dean’s hunting partner is his inexplicable connection to the supernatural. He can’t even do research without the help of computer technology. He’s strong, fast, and skilled in multiple forms of combat, but without his extra senses, all of that would be useless, even impossible. His heightened senses help him greatly in the real world, but aren’t enough on their own to make him a competent hunter.  


Messing up because he doesn’t have a handle on the one thing that makes him useful is not an option.

~

When Dean wakes up, Sam is already clicking away at the laptop intently. His hair is damp from the shower. Dean sits up and stretches, yawning, wondering how Sam can always be so alert, even after an almost-heart attack and no coffee.  


“Did you sleep at all?”  


Sam shrugs. “Enough. I’ve got a theory.”  


Dean rubs his hands over his face, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Hit me.”  


“So we know the ghost isn’t tied to the armoire.”  


“I guess not.”  


“Well, I was thinking, what if it’s not tied to an object?”  


“What do you mean?”  


“I mean, what if Gerald’s ghost isn’t tied to any of the items in the sale, and it was just coincidence that those two buyers were looking at the same piece?”  


“Okay, then why’s he sticking around?”  


“What if he’s tied to Aliyah?”  


Dean takes a moment to let the idea sink in. He’s never read anything in Dad’s journal about ghosts attaching to humans, but then again, he hasn’t read the thing back to cover. “Is that possible?”  


“I’ve been doing some research. Apparently, there is lore to back it up. Some spirits feel such a strong connection to people before they die that they can stick around. In some cultures they’re even seen as guardian angels.”  


“So why is Gerald killing people? Doesn’t sound very ‘guardian angel’ to me.”  


“I have a theory about that too. Aliyah said her grandfather was very protective of her, right? What if he’s sticking around to take out anybody he sees as a threat?”  


“Okay,” Dean says. “But he must have a pretty broad definition of a threat. Aliyah said those buyers weren’t much of a problem. Who kills someone because they disagreed with their granddaughter?”  


“That’s exactly what I thought,” Sam continues, excited. “So I decided to do a search. See, the only deaths we know about are the ones connected to the sale, right? But Gerald died a month ago.”  


“You think there were more victims?”  


“I do. I’ve been looking into the reports from morgues all over the city. And I think I found them.”  


Sam turns the computer to face Dean. Dean rises from the bed to take a look. On the screen is a morgue report.  


“Four other young guys died of heart attacks in this city since Gerald’s death, just like our two buyers. All of them healthy with no history of heart problems. We’ll have to talk to Aliyah, see if she knew these guys. Maybe they did something that set her off.”  


“If these deaths are so weird, why weren’t they reported too? I mean, six guys under the age of fifty die suddenly of heart attacks in the same town within a month, and we only hear about the last two?”  


Sam shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea.”  


Dean squints at the screen, reading the causes of death. All heart attacks, but one thing stands out. “Two of them were tweakers.” He turns the screen towards him and opens up the other tabs. “One had alcohol in his system. Maybe they used that to explain it.”  


“Makes sense. People are pretty good at coming up with explanations for things they don’t understand.”  


“But the other guy? Looks like a totally normal dude.”  


“Look at the date of death.”  


“Shit,” Dean exhales. “Last night?”  


“Yep, must have gone after another victim after us. With it being so soon, they’re probably still looking into it.”  


They’re interrupted by the sound of Dean’s cell ringing. He groans, knowing that there’s very few people who would ever call them and only one likely to do it now. He’s tempted to let it ring until he can at least get some coffee into his system, but aware that doing so will only make the situation worse.  


“Agent Fogerty.” he answers, only taking a brief moment to remember which alias he was using.  


“I just got a call from the storage facility holding my grandfather’s stuff,” Aliyah says, irritation and suspicion clear in her voice. “They said someone broke in last night and unloaded everything and burned the armoire.”  


_Shit._ Dean looks at Sam, who’s cringing as he listens. This is not the way they wanted to leave things. Convinced the case was a simple salt and burn, they had anticipated being able to set everything back in its proper place once the ghost was gone and slink away before anyone noticed that the object in question was missing.  


“Uh, really?” Dean says, feigning innocence. “We’ll be sure to add that to our file.”  


“No. You know something. I don’t know what it is, but I know you do.”  


“Look, Aliyah,” Dean pauses. “We’re gonna have to call you back.”  


He hangs up before she can say anything else. Fiddling with the phone, he turns to Sam.  


“What’s the plan?”  


Sam rubs his temples. “I think we have to tell her. If this theory is correct and the ghost is tied to her, we’re gonna need her help to get rid of it.”  


“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “You’re right. How do you think she’s gonna handle it?”  


“Honestly, I think she’ll be okay with it. She’ll probably be relieved to finally have some answers.”  


“Well, that’s settled. I’ll call her back, we’ll head back over to her place, and tell her everything she’s been told isn’t true her whole life actually is. Oh, and that her beloved grandfather is a ghost who murders everyone who so much as looks at her. There’s no way that’ll end badly.”  


Sam huffs. “Pessimist.”

~

After a few quick errands – to the front desk, which miraculously has a printer, to print off some relevant documents and a McDonald’s drive through because, ghost or not, Dean is not going to deal with a newly enlightened civilian without any coffee – they’re on the road back to Aliyah’s place. They’re both silent the whole way.  


It won’t be the first time they’ve had to let someone in on the secrets of the supernatural world, but given that Aliyah herself is such an important key to ganking the ghost, her cooperation is pretty much necessary.  


They don’t even have to knock when they arrive. The moment they step onto the porch, Aliyah is there, door open and eyes flashing. Given the look in her eyes, Dean is surprised she’s not holding a knife in her hands – or a .45, but she doesn’t seem like that kind of girl.  


“Something’s going on here, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to call the cops,” she proclaims.  


“You’re right,” Sam inserts smoothly. “There is something going on and we’re here to tell you everything. May we come in?”  


She eyes them suspiciously but steps back, gaze caught on Sam’s cane that he’s barely using. Dean nudges him surreptitiously and Sam puts a halfhearted attempt at sweeping it in front of him before they lower themselves onto the couch they sat at the day before. Aliyah sits down on the chair expectantly.  


Dean looks over at Sam, shifting his weight on the couch to get his attention. Sam nods infinitesimally, prompting him to begin. Sighing, Dean turns back to Aliyah, looking her straight in the eye and praying she takes it well. The last thing they need is the key to the success of this hunt pushing them out the door and calling the cops.  


“This is going to sound crazy,” Dean says, taking the lead. “But you have to trust us. I know we haven’t exactly given you a reason to, but right now we’re going to be completely honest with you. We’re investigating the deaths of those men you talked to, and we think there are more. It’s no coincidence that they died suddenly after speaking with you.”  


“They were murdered?”  


“Yes,” Dean takes a deep breath and tries to sound as convincing as possible as he continues. “But not by anything human. At least, not human anymore. We think – no, we know, they were killed by a ghost. Your grandfather’s ghost.”  


Aliyah’s eyes narrow and dart back and forth between the two of them for a moment, perhaps looking for one of them to burst into laughter and scream, ‘gotcha!’  


Neither of them move a muscle.  


“We know this is hard to believe, but we do this for a living,” Sam jumps in. “We hunt things like ghosts. We need you to believe us because we need your help. Peoples’ lives are depending on it.”  


“Okay, crazy,” she says, her voice tentative. “Now I’m really going to call the cops.”  


“You’re not going to call them,” Sam says with confidence.  


Aliyah frowns, and Dean can barely hold back a chuckle because her irritated face is almost identical to Sam’s. “What makes you so sure?”  


“If you were, you would have done it by now.”  


Aliyah holds her stare, eyes narrowed as she looks into Sam’s like she expects him to whip off the glasses and reveal he’s been lying about that too.  


“You’re not Feds.”  


“No, we’re not.”  


“Guess I should have known. What are you, nineteen?”  


Sam shakes his head with a slight smile. “Twenty-two.”  


She looks him up and down. “Okay, Jumpstreet, tell me everything.”  


Dean launches in with the briefest explanation of ghosts he can come up with – they want her to be informed, but there’s no need for her to become an expert. To her credit, she listens without interruption. She clenches her jaw indignantly when he tells her about burning the bones or objects tying the ghost to earth, but doesn’t complain.  


“Why is he still here, then, if you already burned the armoire?” She asks. “Which, by the way, was basically a priceless family heirloom.”  


Sam winces beside him, but Dean can’t be as bothered. They did what they had to do. The thing was ugly as hell anyway.  


“There are unique cases where a ghost can be tied to a human being rather than an object or their own remains. We believe your grandfather’s ghost is tied to you,” Sam says.  


“You told us your grandfather was protective of you,” Dean asserts before she can respond.  


“Yeah, he was. But he never hurt anyone.”  


Sam shakes his head. “Ghosts aren’t like the people they used to be. They may hold on to elements of themselves, but living between life and death messes with them. They can lose control. That’s why he’s hurting people now. You have to understand that he’s not your grandfather anymore. Sometimes ghosts aren’t holding on because they want to hurt people. Sometimes they hold on because they want to protect people. The problem is they usually end up hurting people anyway.”  


“But why would he kill those guys? They didn’t do anything to me. What we had was barely an argument.”  


Sam pulls out a folder from his bag and opens it up, revealing the pictures they printed off from the morgue’s records.  


“We don’t think they were his first victims.”  


“Do you know any of these men?” Dean asks as he hands them to her, one by one.  


She frowns at them, her forehead creasing in thought. When she comes to the last one, her face falls.  


“Yeah, actually.” She holds up the last one, voice shaking slightly. “This is my ex.”  


“When did you see him last?”  


“I don’t know, a couple months ago? I didn’t know that he died.”  


“What was your relationship with him like?” Sam asks gently.  


“He had a drinking problem. The night we broke up, he came after me. I called the cops and they arrested him, but since he never actually hit me it wasn’t enough for them to put him away. He called to apologize but I never picked up. He blew up my voicemail for a few days. In the last one he left, he said he was moving down south.”  


Dean bites his lip, wishing he didn’t have to tell her this but knowing she needs to hear it.  


“He dropped dead from a heart attack three days after your grandfather’s death, right after getting off a bus coming in to the city.”  


“He was coming to see me,” she says after a short pause.  


“That’s what it looks like. He was in pretty bad shape at the time. The morgue report shows alcohol was in his system and he was already showing early signs of cirrhosis. His bad health was probably why his death didn’t make the news.”  


They’re silent for a moment. Sam is the one to break it.  


“What about the other three? Anyone you recognize?”  


She looks down at the pictures once more, picks out two. “These guys work at one of the clubs downtown. I go there with my friends, maybe once or twice a month. This guy’s a DJ,” she points at the image of a skinny white guy with long hair. “And the other’s a bartender,” she notes of the larger man. Both young, dead before hitting thirty.  


“Did you interact with them?”  


“They hit on me a few times. I turned them down every time, but they weren’t the kind of guys who liked to take ‘no’ for an answer.”  


“When was the last time you were at the club?”  


“I don’t know, two weeks ago, I think? My friends took me out to try and get my mind off things.”  


“Both of them died two weeks ago. The autopsy report showed traces of narcotics in their blood, which could explain why their deaths weren’t flagged either.”  


“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”  


Sam shakes his head. “That’s what I thought at first, but the amounts were nowhere near what it takes to OD. Still, when two club kids show up dead with drugs in their blood, people tend not to ask questions.”  


“This other guy,” Aliyah continues unprompted. “I think I’ve seen him before, at my gym. We never spoke.”  


“He died the most recently. We didn’t connect it to the case at first because it only happened last night. Given the escalating nature of the ghost’s attacks, it is likely there was little to no reason for this man to be targeted. First, the ghost went after a dangerous ex, then two pushy guys with possible bad intentions, next two buyers who had a disagreement with you, and for all we know, this last guy could have just been someone who looked at you a little too long for his liking.” Dean notices the way Sam is careful not to refer to the ghost as her grandfather – allowing a civilian to think of a monster as the person they used to love is never a good thing and can lead to messy consequences.  


Aliyah is silent for a short period, biting her lip. Dean watches her take it all in and feels oddly proud of her for handling it so well.  


“Okay,” she says. “How do we stop him?”  


“We’ll have to draw him out,” Sam says. “If we stay here with you, he’ll come for us, and this time we’ll be ready for him.”  


“How do you know he’ll come?”  


“He’s kind of pissed at us for last night,” Dean says. “We burned the armoire to get rid of him, but obviously it didn’t work and we got away before he could take us out. Ghosts don’t easily forget that kind of thing.”  


“And once he’s here? You’re not gonna burn me, right?” She laughs nervously.  


“No,” Sam assures her with a smile. “Not our M.O. If we can get him here with you, really force him to face you, we think we can get him to pass on. We’ll need you to speak with him.”  


Her eyebrows shoot up. “So it’s all on me? I have to convince my grandfather’s crazy ghost to stop killing people just by talking to him?”  


“It should work. What he’s doing now, it’s a distorted shadow of your grandfather’s love for you. He may not be your grandfather anymore, but there is a part of him still there that wants you safe and happy. If you can appeal to that, bring that sane part of him out, you can convince him to move on.”  


“Okay,” she sighs. “I guess it’s a sleepover.” She pauses, smiles slightly. “Two giant white boys I barely know staying in my house? That would get Grandpa Morgan running, all right.”

~

Aliyah offers them a guest room and the couch, but Sam and Dean refuse. Even if it does take all day for the ghost to show up, they won’t be sleeping until he’s gone. Dean unloads some necessities from the trunk of the impala – shotguns loaded with rock salt shells and a couple iron rods that make good weapons – while Sam watches over Aliyah.  


“What about me?” She asks. “I know we’re sending a spirit into the great beyond, but I do have to go to work tomorrow.”  


“He’ll know we’re here. It’s highly unlikely he’d wait that long to intervene,” Sam says.  


“Good to know.”  


A stillness follows her statement, the kind of cue Sam has learned means that someone wants to say something but is afraid of the answer. She’s silent for a beat before speaking again.  


“What happens…after?”  


Sam pauses. It’s the big question he still can’t answer.  


“We don’t know for sure. The spirit passes on to the next plane of existence, or state of being. The afterlife, if you believe in it.”  


“Do you?”  


“Yeah,” Sam answers without hesitation. “I do.”  


“I do, too. I think that’s what’s going to make this a lot easier to handle, knowing there’s something good waiting for him after this. I mean, he’s my grandpa. Learning ghosts are real is bad enough, but knowing he’s one of them? Killing people to protect me? It’s so messed up.”  


Sam wants to reach for her, but refrains. He’s a tactile person by nature, but in the same way he doesn’t like people touching him, he’s never felt comfortable reaching out for anyone else. The only person he feels unselfconscious about touching is Dean.  


“It will be over soon,” he assures her. “All you have to do is show him how much you love him and he’ll listen to you.”  


The air shifts as Dean arrives back inside. The smell of iron and gunpowder is in the air as he passes by and deposits an armful of weaponry on Aliyah’s coffee table with a loud _thunk_. Sam cringes.  


“All right,” Dean says. “We got shotguns loaded with rock salt; salt repels ghosts. These iron rods work too. These will protect us for a short period of time while you try your hand at convincing the old man to let go.” The scent of iron pulses once more as one of the rods is passed to Aliyah. “You should take one of these. And we’ll keep you in a salt circle the whole time.”  


“I thought he wouldn’t hurt me.”  


“It’s only a precaution,” Sam assures her. “Better safe than sorry.”  


Still, her apprehension is like static. It hasn’t shifted to full blown fear yet, but it’s getting there.  


A sudden chill runs up Sam’s spine and he rises, reaching out his hand for a shotgun. Dean hands it to him and he braces himself, listening and feeling their surroundings for a sign of the ghost.  


“He’s coming.”  


~  


The lights start to flicker shortly after the cold spot announces Gerald’s arrival. Dean nods to Aliyah, who’s staring with wide eyes at Sam taking the safety off his gun.  


“ _You_ have a gun?”  


Sam snorts. “Trust me,” he says.  


It’s a lot to ask of a person.  


Dean gets to work sprinkling a ring around Aliyah, big enough for them all to fit in if necessary. She grips her iron rod and watches him work, biting her lip nervously.  


“You’re gonna be fine,” Dean tells her. “You’ll be safe in here.”  


“Aren’t you guys getting in?”  


Dean shakes his head. “No, not right now at least. He wants us, and if we don’t want to piss him off even more, we’re gonna have to give him what he wants.”  


“Dean.”  


Dean looks up to see Sam gesturing to the far corner of the room.  


Sure enough, Dean turns and sees Gerald’s ghost materialize only seconds later, looking pissed and ragged. He looks far more menacing this time around – the ghostly imprint of his old suit tattered, facial hair patchy, and wrinkled skin pulled back in a furious snarl.  


“Aliyah!”  


She turns and sees her grandfather’s ghost for the first time as it reaches a hand out towards Sam, clearly pleased at getting another opportunity for a heart attack grope-fest. Sam twists and holds his shotgun directly in front of his heart, cutting off Gerald’s path of attack.  


“Start talking!” He shouts to Aliyah, who seems to have been struck with shocked silence.  


His shout jolts her out of it, though, and she starts speaking when the ghost abandons Sam for Dean.  


“Grandpa. Grandpa Morgan!”  


The ghost has its nails in Dean’s chest almost immediately, and he gasps with the intensity of the pain. White hot needles stab into his heart from every angle, squeezing and stabbing all at once. He feels his knees start to go weak when a loud bang has the ghost dissipating.  


“Dean!”  


Sam’s hands are on him almost immediately, one over his heart and the other on his shoulder, offering support.  


“I’m okay,” Dean grunts. He looks around the room for Gerald’s reappearance. “Yeah, we burned an ugly-ass, oversized cabinet. Son of a bitch can’t learn to let things go!”  


“Where is he?” Aliyah asks.  


“He’s around. Just keep talking. He’ll come back,” Sam says.  


She calls out for him again, but nothing happens. Dean rights himself and shakes out the remaining pins and needles feeling in his chest. He presses a hand over his heart and winces at the tenderness still there, but deems it adequately recovered and braces himself with his shotgun once more.  


It takes him a second too long to connect Sam’s warning of, “Behind us,” and the whooshing sensation of being thrown violently backwards.  


Dean grunts in pain as his head cracks against the wall, hearing an identical noise from Sam beside him. Gerald has them both pinned and wriggling, exhibiting strength a ghost just shouldn’t have. He’s been allowed to progress and intensify his abilities for too long and it shows in the way neither of them can shake loose of his grip.  


At least he’s not choking them, Dean thinks. It never hurts to look on the bright side.  


Aliyah is calling for her grandfather to stop, her increasingly frantic shouts having no effect on the ghost. For a moment, Dean fears they were wrong about this plan. Maybe Gerald really is too far gone to be shaken by the power of his beloved granddaughter.  


The ghost shoots forward, close enough to grab each of their chests in tandem, apparently tired of being thwarted in his one-on-one attempts. In the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam’s mouth fall open in a strangled shout.  


The constricting in his chest prevents Dean from calling out to Aliyah. He’s helpless.  


Suddenly, Gerald’s grip lessens. He turns his head to the side, as if listening. It takes Dean a minute for the ringing in his head to clear, but when it does, he realizes Gerald is listening to Aliyah.  


Looking past Gerald’s shoulder, Dean sees the scattered edge of the salt line where it’s been kicked open. Aliyah’s foot stands tentatively outside of the ruined circle.  


“Please,” she pleads. “Please, grandpa, you have to stop.”  


Dean looks over at Sam. His brother’s head is lying back against the wall, but when the pressure of Dean’s eyes are on him, he turns inward and nods, signaling that he’s okay.  


Aliyah steps forward, closer to Gerald’s ghost. She drops the iron rod.  


Gerald lets the two of them go at once, carelessly dropping both of them to the floor and turning to approach his granddaughter, gently and without a hint of the malice that has already killed six people.  


Aliyah makes startled eye contact with Dean, eye brows raised in question. He nods encouragingly.  


With tears in her eyes, she nods back.  


“Grandpa,” she says with a waver in her voice. “You have to go.”  


The ghost pauses, looks at her with a blank stare. Nothing happens.  


“You can’t stay,” Aliyah presses on. “You have to let go.”  


Dean holds his breath. Still, the ghost hovers in front of Aliyah, neither fading nor moving to attack.  


“You taught me to be strong, grandpa. You taught me I could overcome any obstacle and you never made me feel like I needed someone to protect me. I know what you did, you did out of love. But this? What you’re doing right now? You’re hurting people, and that’s not something my grandpa would do.”  


She tentatively reaches out a shaky hand, touches the wispy, silvery surface of the ghost’s face. Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she continues, “I love you. I love you so much and I wish you were still here with me, but not like this. If you keep doing this, if you keep hurting people in my name, you’re hurting me. You have to let go.”  


The ghost raises its own arms, placing its hands on her shoulders and leaning in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. It’s so gentle, so different from the creature that was throwing them against walls only minutes before.  


“Goodbye, grandpa,” Aliyah says.  


The ghost draws back into itself, shimmering as its lines blur and become less definite, before simply disappearing in a swirl of silver. The air clears and Dean makes eye contact with Aliyah, pretends he doesn’t see the shining tear tracks from the few that she couldn’t hold in.

~

“Okay, you gotta tell me.”  


Sam leans against the side of the impala while Dean finishes tossing their bags in the trunk. The dark metal exterior is hot from the sun, uncomfortable against the back of his jeans. He shifts, runs a hand through his hair to pull it off his neck and smiles.  


“You wanna know how I do it?”  


“Yeah, I mean, there aren’t many blind guys who can aim a gun and run around banishing ghosts.”  


Sam taps his nose with a finger, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’ve got an excellent sense of smell.”  


She laughs. It’s a nice sound. “All right, keep your secrets.” The air shifts when she moves just a little bit closer.  


“So, do you think you guys might stick around for a little while?”  


“Uh, probably not.”  


“Well, I figured, if you were…maybe you and I could get coffee sometime.”  


“Oh, uh,” Sam pauses, grasping for the right words. He feels himself blushing, all too aware of Dean’s presence behind him, far enough away not to be intruding but close enough to hear them.  


Normally, this is where Sam would say they’re heading out to another job and he is unavailable for a date. Today, though, he makes a decision.  


“Actually, I’m seeing someone.”  


“Oh,” Aliyah says. “Well, can’t blame a girl for trying. That’s a very lucky someone, whoever they are.”  


Sam smiles, barely resisting the urge to turn to Dean. “You should tell him that.”  


“Oh,” she says, almost managing to keep the surprise from her voice. Sam admires her for the effort. He waits a moment for her to put it together, can practically feel Dean’s smug smile behind him. “ _Oh._ Sorry, I didn’t realize.”  


Sam shrugs. “Don’t apologize.”  


“Okay.” She collects herself with a sigh. “Well, thanks for all your help. Both of you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come here.”  


“It’s not all on us. You’re the one who finally made him let go.”  


“Yeah. I’m just glad it’s over. Here’s hoping that’s the last ghost I’ll ever encounter.”  


Sam shifts minutely, hears Dean’s boots scuff the gravel beneath their feet. For a fleeting, selfish moment, he wishes they could say the same thing.  


“So, what’s next for you boys? Any more damsels to save?”  


Sam laughs. “You’re hardly a damsel.”  


“Even so.”  


“We’ll find another job,” Dean cuts in. “They spring up everywhere.”  


“Well, if you’re ever in town again, you’re always welcome at my place. And I promise you won’t get attacked by any more ghosts.”  


“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Sam says.  


She laughs and they say their goodbyes.  


Sam listens to her head back into the house and climbs into the passenger seat, buckling up beside Dean.  


“Hey,” Dean says with humor in his voice. “I guess now we know why gramps was so keen on killing you.”  


“Huh?”  


“He knew she had a thing for you. Had to protect her from the big, dangerous ghost hunter.”  


“Shut up.”

~

They head back to the motel to collect what little they have left of their things there and head out once more. There’s no new case on their radar yet and they both relish the opportunity for a little time on the open road without the urgent feeling of an impending hunt.  


They’re parked in a deserted truck stop lot just off the highway, leaning against the impala’s hood. Dean stuffs his face with a cheeseburger and Sam picks at his fries. The sun hasn’t yet begun to set, keeping them bathed in pleasant warmth cut with the occasional breeze. There are trees off to the side at the far edge of the lot. Sam can hear their leaves blowing in the wind and the birds singing from their branches.  


“Dean. I’m sorry about what happened back there.”  


Dean shifts silently and the impala moves with him. Sam presses on.  


“I got distracted and things didn’t go as smoothly as they could have. But, look, if you want this to work, us hunting again, you’re gonna have to trust me.”  


“I do trust you, Sammy. I know, it’s just…”  


“What?”  


“Sammy, when you left for Stanford, I found out what life would be like without you, and I gotta tell you, man, it sucked. If something happens out there,” Dean pauses, the scratch of the callouses on his palm over his stubble loud even above the trees and birds and road sounds surrounding them. “I don’t know what I’d do, okay?”  


Sam loses interest in his fries and listens to his brother beside him – the way he chews with his mouth open, each breath he takes, the beat of his heart. It’s amazing how after four years, he never forgot a single Dean-rhythm. He’s still the same noisy, smelly constant Sam’s had beside him his whole life. It hits him, then, how empty his life would be without Dean, and how much he missed him when they were apart.  


The edges of Sam’s mouth turn up in a small, sincere smile. “Okay. I know what you mean.”  


“All right.” Dean slaps a hand on his brother’s back and crumples up his wrapper. “Now that we’re done menstruating, what do you say we get back on the road?”  


Sam laughs, and they get in the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, comments are what keep me breathing :)


End file.
